Catspaw
by Peres
Summary: Myraene Tabris gets rather more than she bargained for when she borrows a few books from the elf in the potions shop. Written as a gift for the lovely Oleander's One, to whom Myr belongs.


**Author's note: A gift for the utterly wonderful Oleander's One, my most faithful and cherished reviewer, good friend, and fellow Sand-fanatic. Myr comes from her Dragon Age fics 'Intemperance' and 'Reconstruction'. Sand belongs to Obsidian and the game Neverwinter Night 2. As he's a lawyer, I can't persuade him to break his contract with them and run away with me.**

**Cats belong to themselves. **

Perched in the shadow of a chimney, Myraene Tabris looked down at the potions shop. Light still spilled forth from the narrow windows of the first floor, which meant that the proprietor was busy at his distillations and would not be upstairs for at least another hour. The man was predictable to the minute, which was exactly the sort of thing Myr liked to see under these circumstances.

She moved lightly over the roof-tops of Denerim's Market District, one shadow among many and no noisier than the others. Reaching the right roof, she shimmied down a drainpipe, and came level with an upstairs window. She dug her toes into the crevices of the wall, wrapped her arm closer about the pipe (praying it would not choose that moment to give way) and with a bit of metal inked so that it didn't shine, probed carefully at the hinges, sill, and finally latch of the window.

He hadn't reset the traps on his window, which could mean that he hadn't noticed the loss, or that he hadn't worked out her point of entry. Either way, easy game.

Myr slid in through the window and stood motionless in a patch of shadow, every sense alert for the slightest change about her; but there was none. Reassured but not confident (confidence got thieves killed), Myr permitted herself a smile of pure anticipation.

The upstairs room contained a small bed, a little chest of drawers with a lamp on it, and a perfect maze of bookcases, almost groaning under the weight of all the books crammed onto them. At odd intervals around the maze, the floors was stacked with yet more tomes. Most of them, as Myr had delightedly noted on her first visit, were ones she'd never heard of by authors she didn't know – and her knowledge was extensive.

Oh, he had a few books Myr recognised; herbals both basic and advanced, a bit of history and most of Brother Genetivi's volumes, but the bulk of the treasure trove were the totally unknown tomes. She'd purloined a few several nights ago, and now was here to return them.

Reading them had proved... odd. She'd lifted one that mentioned griffons in the title (even if it had been spelled '_gryphons'_), and found it be a thorough examination of their internal workings... compared against other, impossible creatures. It had pictures of them, hippogriffs and manticores and androsphinxes. It looked like some sort of joke, but it didn't feel like one. Then there was the history book – not a single figure in it that Myr recognised, not a single land she knew, but the tone was all wrong for fiction. The book of magical theory hadn't mentioned the Fade, templars or demons at all. It had talked at length about something called the Weave and somebody called 'Mystra'. Myr was thoroughly confused, but fascinated – and determined, too.

Somewhere in this room, there had to be a book that explained it all. She wanted to find it.

First things first. Myr ghosted through the labyrinthine library to the stack she'd rifled before, to replace the books, and found a small guardian. The small tabby cat sat upright, large, jewel-bright eyes fixed on her. It opened its mouth and meowed, a surprisingly loud and purposeful sound. Myr froze, begging silently not to get into trouble, not daring to flee...

"Yes, Jaral, thank you," a masculine, slightly nasal voice sounded from downstairs. "That's about enough, I think. Come down here, girl."

The cat didn't move.

He could come up to get it at any moment.

"This is not a conversation I wish to yell up stairs, nor do I wish to leave my alchemy at this precise juncture. Come _down_, girl; I know you're up there. An alienage elf, female, quite young, presumably the person who purloined three of my books four days ago. I want to talk to you, so please come down here like a civilised person, if there is such a thing in these benighted lands."

Myr shifted her weight, preparing to bolt for the window –

"I assure you," the voice continued, "that I will not call the guards unless you run. I do not doubt that you could safely escape before they could respond, but I should not like to send them to the Alienage after you. Let's keep matters between the two of us, hmmm?"

Daniel had warned her long ago exactly how much, or, rather, how little, he could do to shield her if ever she were found where she should not be. Unwillingly, seeing no other option, Myr descended the stairs, the books she'd borrowed clutched tightly to her chest. The little tabby cat jumped down from the pile of books and trailed at her heels.

"Ah, there you are. Older than I expected," the speaker said. Myr hadn't been close enough to study the owner of the potions shop in any great deal before; all she'd seen from a distance was that he was dark-haired, and no taller than her. She raised her eyes from the floor and looked at him –

- he was an elf. His dark hair was brushed straight back from a high forehead save for a single braid either side, a hairstyle that seemed designed to draw attention to his pointed ears. His pale blue eyes were coolly appraising her in turn, and his thin mouth was held in lines that suggested an acid wit. His face was as unlined as hers, although he looked a little older somehow. He wore robes of a strange cut; not like a mage's or a templar's, not even remotely like a dress. One hand held a long silver rod, with which he had apparently been stirring one of the many pieces of strange glassware on the table before him.

"You possess at least a glimmer of intelligence, one can see. You are stubborn, a little proud. Good qualities, in moderation – I hope you do subscribe to the idea of moderation, unlike that idiotic Qara. What's your name, girl?"

Without hesitating, Myr said, "Adaia."

He smiled, his gaze almost approving. "Quick of wit, yes, and it seems you are an accomplished liar when you choose to be, _Adaia_."

"Ser, I-"

"So am I," the elf continued. "The truth is a very valuable commodity, and there is no profit in giving it away to anyone who asks, hmmm? You may call me Sand."

Every moment that passed increased her confidence. She didn't trust him at all – there were too many oddities and anomalies - but she didn't think he was about to call the guards. "Is that really your name?"

"It is as much of it as I give to friends of long standing," he answered, "so it's more than you deserve. Keep your name, Adaia,but tell me this truthfully: what were you doing with my books? You did not take them to sell; even an illiterate merchant," he sniffed, "perhaps _only_ an illiterate merchant would have given you a handful of silvers for the drivelings of that pompous drone Vugo. And you would not have brought them back, either."

"I wanted to read them."

"And did you?" he asked, turning back to his glassware, prodding a green solution gingerly with the silver rod.

"Sort of," Myr said. "I didn't understand most of them," She handed the books back to him, looking him straight in the eyes as she stated her conclusion, "but they're not fiction. Or a hoax."

"You are remarkably sure in your convictions. In that case, what are they?"

"All three writers may have been mad, ignorant or mistaken," Myr said, and watched for his reaction, "but that would be rather a large coincidence to swallow."

"Unless you merely stumbled upon my pile of books by mad authors," Sand interjected. "There is ample material, I assure you."

"I've read books by insane authors. They aren't that coherent. I think," said Myr slowly, not to be deterred, "the authors meant exactly what they said and that they're correct. It's what the texts suggest... I just don't know how that could be."

Something in the pale eyes that glanced swiftly up at her made her think she'd done well. "An interesting conclusion to reach," Sand said, and moved a beaker off the heat. "Come with me, Adaia."

Picking up a lantern, he led her upstairs to the books. "Hmmm... not Volo, nor Tolvasare. Koltine, Guinle, Dwynnej, no good to you. I could have sworn I had a copy of – ah, here it is." He plucked a slim volume off the shelf and tucked it under his arm. "And these two... now, Adaia, I have a bargain I wish to put to you."

"I'm listening," Myr said cautiously.

"I offer you the freedom of my bookshelves, under certain conditions. Namely, if I wish you to study certain volumes, you will read them. I will answer any questions that your reading may suggest to you, as you will answer mine in return. You will not speak to anyone of this, nor will you allow other eyes to fall upon my books. Lastly, and of greatest importance," and his icy eyes pierced her, "you will not put a book down on its face, nor crack its spine, nor dog-ear, smear, tear, graffiti or otherwise deface its pages. If you torture my books, Iwill not hesitate to kill you in whatever manner seems most befitting your crime."

Myr nearly laughed with relief. She wasn't going to get into trouble. The elf was rather overprotective of his books, but she would be, too, if she ever possessed a treasure like this. And she could read them all – the mere prospect made her slightly dizzy. "Serah, I gratefully accept."

"I am glad to hear it; you would be a fool to refuse and I have no use for fools," Sand said, and handed her the books he'd chosen. "Now scurry back to wherever you came from, and don't bother to come back until you've read and understood these."

Myr sat on the windowsill and swung her legs out the window. She glanced back over her shoulder to ask just one question. "Why?"

"Because, loath as I am to admit it," Sand said, and it must have been some trick of the lantern light that made his smooth face look so haggard and desperate for an instant, "I need help."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Sand's books reflected a world quite different from the one Myr knew. A world where there was not one kind of magic, but many, and none of its various practitioners needed to worry about templars or turning into abominations. A world that had never heard of the Maker or Andraste, but instead was ruled by hundreds of gods and goddesses. A world of metals and plants and animals she'd never heard of. A world where there were many different races, strange ones like orcs and svirfneblin and hagspawn, and familiar ones, like humans and dwarves and elves, made strange. Humans who lived for a hundred years. Friendly, jovial dwarves. Many different kinds of elves, some who lived for a thousand years, all of whom were free and equal with humans.

She had so many questions...

-0-0-0-0-0-

"You're one of them, aren't you? You're from that world. Fay-air-rune."

Sand inclined his head, something like respect or satisfaction glittering in his cold eyes. "There are not many who would trust their logic against their conventions so far. Well done, dear girl; you are absolutely correct."

"How did you end up here?"

He closed his eyes, shook his head. "A rash, impulsive course of action. A friend of mine was kidnapped, and I gave chase across the Shadow Plane... but I lost them, and I found myself here instead."

"And you're trying to find a way back."

"Naturally."

Once she'd accepted the fact that Sand's books described a real world, one that wasn't hers, everything had fallen into place. Except one thing: "Why do you need help?"

"I do not know enough about this world," Sand said, "and it seems it will take far too long to learn all of what I need to know from your books. I need your insight; the instinctive understanding of one born here. You are old enough to think intelligently, and young enough to accept ideas that run counter to the laws of your reality. Adaia –"

"Myraene Tabris," she told him, raising her chin proudly. "Myr."

Long creases showed in his thin cheeks when he smiled wryly. "Sandageraluon Vaarskyrius," and added "Sand," when she boggled. "I no longer believe that I can find my friend here, but if I can open a portal to the Shadow Plane, Myr, I may be able to go home."

She had not forgotten how fraught he had looked in the lantern-light. "And why me? There must have been other people, better educated, real scholars you could have asked."

"My position here is... hmmm, somewhat irregular. If I hadn't taken the precaution of secreting several hundred gold pieces among my books, I do not doubt that I would have been tossed into the Alienage at the point of a boot. If I were not vastly more talented than the majority of the charlatans who practice the art of alchemy here, I still might be. For the time being, my many talents afford me some protection, but I do not wish to draw additional attention to myself by appearing in more learned circles."

"What would you done if I –" Myr started to ask, but the little tabby cat leapt up on the table. Only now, in strong light, did Myr notice the soft swell of her belly.

Her green eyes fixed on Sand, she gave a demanding mew. The elf – _moon elf_, Myr corrected herself; from her reading, he had to be of that kindred – shook his head in reproof. "I told you no good would come of it. If you did not wish to find yourself in this sorry state, you should not have gone out when they called. You lived a perfectly virtuous life in Luskan and Neverwinter."

"You talk to her as though she can understand," Myr commented, and the feline turned her head and hissed.

"Of course she can. Cats possess many talents. Understanding our speech is one of the least of them. They are tied to their native plane in ways wizards are only just beginning to understand; a cat always knows where she is and how to reach the place she wants to be - and her sense of stylish movement is enviable. But I digress. Myr, this is Jaral, my familiar; do you happen to remember what that might be?"

She stared hard at him. "Keep condescending to me, _wizard,_ and I'll walk right out that door. You need me; I don't need you."

"Once again you surprise me," Sand said, as Jaral jumped down into his lap, and he stroked her long body. "Forgive me, Myr; it is a habit I've acquired over centuries and have never bothered to check. So few people are worth the effort... I will attempt to guard my tongue whilst I speak with you."

"Please do," Myr said, and then, "Centuries?" Certainly the books had said, but – "How old are you?"

"How old do I appear to be?" Sand retorted.

"Perhaps twenty," she told him, after some reflection. "But you would have to be two hundred at least to refer to 'centuries'." Her mind rather choked on that idea; it was one thing to hear of the immortal elves of Arlathan or to read of drow elves with lifespan of a millennium, but another to meet someone who had lived so long.

"I am four hundred and sixty-seven years old," Sand said.

"But you look –"

"Elves do not _rot_ in the manner of lesser races," Sand said, as if the very idea disgusted him.

"Yes, we do," Myr said quietly. "Faster, even; life in the Alienage is not kind."

"Sweet blessed Mystra," Sand muttered. "I have been to the Alienage gates; I have read every account of the phenomenon I could find, but I cannot understand it at all. How could the People have come to _this_, in any world? Your wild cousins – why do they not intervene?"

"I've never met one," she said, "but Father says the Dalish don't think much of us. And there are too many elves in the Alienage for us to all run off to the clans. Even if we all made it, we'd slow the clans down to the point where they'd never escape notice; it would be asking for slaughter. Besides, not everyone wants to leave the familiar city for the unknown woods."

"No, that only makes sense," Sand agreed. "I am not some calf-eyed druid with flowers in his hair; I _like _cities. But I will not tolerate squalor, nor oppression. How did it come about, Myr? There must have been a time when the People were free and powerful."

"There was," Myr said. She could have told this tale in her sleep; both her father and Elder Valendrian repeated it often.

"This is the story of Arlathan..."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Myr came to like him a great deal over the months that followed, and not just for his books. His sharp and often abusive sense of humour was very amusing, when it wasn't aimed at her; his quick intelligence alone nearly justified his (usually) unconscious and habitual arrogance; and although he demanded a great deal of her, driven on by his desire to return home, he backed off when she protested.

He had insisted that Myr bring her father to meet him (Sand refused to enter the Alienage, afraid that he would not be permitted to leave it again). Awkward questions had been asked, particularly about how Myr had met him in the first place, but the two men got along very well indeed, especially once Sand got him started on ancient history. She didn't think Cyrion really approved of him, as an elf living outside the Alienage walls and not contributing to the culture, and he certainly didn't appreciate Sand's habitual secretiveness, but it was a rare week that didn't bring him to the potions shop at least once.

"I think we're getting closer," Sand muttered. "There's still a piece missing. Perhaps two. Perhaps if-" his head shot up, almost in panic; a second later, an ear-splitting yowl sounded from upstairs. Sand jumped to his feet; she had never seen the elf move so quickly.

"What is it?"

He was bolting upstairs, but still tossed over his shoulder, "Jaral."

In the lowest drawer beside his bed, the cat lay in a nest of half-shredded robe, her eyes slitted, her white fangs bared. Sand knelt beside her, murmuring soft words in a tongue Myr did not recognise but could guess to be Elvish.

"What is it, Sand?"

"Her kittens. Fool cat, I _told_ you –" She responded to that admonition by sinking her teeth into his thumb. "Myr, can you help her?"

"I have a pet mouse; I don't know anything about cats," she said. "I'm sorry." She knew just how much Jaral meant to Sand (even if he tried to hide it), and she had come to like the cat herself. Her purring was soothing, her personality entertaining, and her soft fur was a delight to stroke. Besides, she could never stand to see anything in pain. "Maybe some water?"

It proved a long night. Sand refused to leave Jaral's side, so Myr had to do all the running around for both of them. Finally, a little before midnight, Jaral gave a great heave and the first kitten (rusty black coat bedraggled, eyes closed) nosed out into the world. Sand picked it up and stroked the tiny head tenderly. "Just look at that," he murmured, a silly, besotted smile on his face. Myr could feel her mouth stretching into a similar one. "You, good-" he peeked under its thin little tail – "sir, are ridiculously tardy."

"Ridiculously adorable," Myr murmured, but Sand wasn't listening to her.

"I expect better things from you in future; your mother does not tolerate even an instant's delay."

Myr reached hesitantly toward the kitten, and found the tip of her smallest finger engulfed by a small sharp-edged mouth, which seemed quite determined to suck some nourishment from her. "Now, now. I'm not your mama."

Sand chuckled. "No, but Jaral informs me that you're to take care of him when he's ready to leave her. She says that it is shameful for a... hmmm... nightstalker like you to be wasting your time on vermin." He helped Myr gently free her finger from the kitten's mouth, and placed him beside Jaral. "And that his name is Corico," he said. "Not my choice, you understand. Cats are very particular about names."

The rest of the kittens (four more) came forth in rapid succession after that; Skimble and Mercurius, the toms, and Jenet and Cipha, two queens identical to their mother. Jaral curled around them, purring like distant thunder as they nursed; Sand sank down to observe the drowsy scene of domestic tranquillity.

"I should be getting back," Myr said reluctantly. "My father had a very serious 'I want to talk to you, Myraene Tabris, and you're not getting out of it this time' look to him this evening; I dread to think what it might be like by morning."

"Hmmm," Sand replied absently, "...tidal waves and earthquakes, I should think. It is never wise to underestimate the power of paternal wrath."

"Good night, Jaral," Myr murmured, stroking her velvet head. "Good night, Skimble, Mercurius, Jenet, Cipha, Corico. Good night, Sand."

-0-0-0-0-0-

The words her father had said still clanging in her head, Myr returned to the potions shop earlier than usual – before dusk, instead of in full night. She'd had most of a day to adjust and to think, and she'd made up her mind... but that didn't make it any easier.

The shop was locked – in fact, it showed no signs of having been opened that day at all. As soon as she felt unobserved, she scurried up the wall to his window and let herself in.

He was still sitting where he'd left him, watching over Jaral's little family. Normally so immaculate, his hair badly wanted a brush and his robe was decidedly crumpled. "Sand..." she called softly.

"Myr," he almost whispered. "They're about to fall asleep, so ghost over here like a good little cat-burglar."

She did.

"There is no sound that radiates contentment like a purr."

Myr didn't dare look at the peaceful scene, or she would lose her resolve. "Uh, Sand... you like me, right?"

"Indeed, dear girl. You are one of the least benightedly unintelligent sentient beings it has been my profound lack of pleasure not to be able to avoid meeting."

Even the fact that the string of negatives actually ended up in a flattering place did not lift her spirits. "You give the best compliments," she muttered, but her heart was not in it. "Sand... will you marry me?"

He woke up. "What?"

She repeated it.

"Sweet Mystra's _tits_," he cursed, suddenly having lost all his usual aplomb and superior air. "I mean, not that I'm not flattered, d-Myr, but-"

"You don't have to spare my feelings," Myr told him, the hard part over with. "I'm not infatuated with you or anything like that."

"Then why –"

"Remember that my father had something to say? Well, it was rather more than just _something._" Myr explained to Sand the whole course of an Alienage life, including the fact that she was now several years overdue to marry and settle down into breeding elven babies. These marriages were usually arranged by the mother, and since Adaia had died many years ago, Myr had quietly believed that her father had never thought to arrange a marriage for her.

Jaral mewed plaintively; in response, Sand lifted Corico from the drawer and gave him to Myr. Despite her somewhat frazzled state, the tiny purr helped.

Cyrion had informed her otherwise last night. He'd made enquiries and found her a groom – a smith from Highever named Nelaros, who would arrive in Denerim within a week. He'd broken the news gently but firmly, and although Myr could never get angry or resentful with her father, she'd come very close.

"You are very young," Sand murmured. There was understanding in his pale eyes.

"Seventeen is not so young in the Alienage, and it's old for marriage. But..."

"You do not wish to marry this Nelaros?" Sand asked.

"I don't know him," Myr said simply. "I... I'm not sure I can face it. But then I thought of you, and, well, you're not from the Alienage, and I know I like you, even if your wit would get a little wearying, and Father likes you, and you like me, and you've never mentioned a wife..." Put like that, it sounded so stupid.

"Dear girl," Sand said softly, as Corico kneaded his claws in and out on her knee. "I am truly, deeply sorry for your predicament, but I cannot solve it for you. First: I know your people account these things differently, but you are only a child. I am more than twenty-seven times your age. Second: you know I have no intention of remaining here –"

"-I'd come with you," Myr protested, knowing already it was hopeless. "I would happily leave this world for yours, as long as Father could come too."

"And your cousins? And all the elves of all the Alienages?" He shook his head slowly. "No, Myr, that won't work." He leant forward slightly, intent. "You know I esteem your father highly. You know better than I how deeply he cares for you. Trust him, Myr; he would not have chosen a husband for you unwisely."

Slowly, she nodded, trying to resign herself.

"You know how he loved your mother. It is only a fancy of the bards that holds arranged marriages loveless. My parents had one, too; it was not uncommon among certain strata of elven society six hundred years ago. You can make this work, Myr."

"It's not the life I want!" she cried, Corico echoing the sound.

"Nobody ever gets that," Sand said heavily.

She looked up at him, in sudden enquiry.

He half-shrugged, a restless, fragile movement. "She was just a slip of an elf-girl. All the old phrases that the bards keep recycling – the grace of a bird in flight, hair like flame and eyes like a stormy sea." He let out a little huff of air that was almost a laugh. "Umberlee's own temper to match. She was murdered in the Hosttower. Thirty years ago." All his cynicism had vanished; his eyes held the regrets and sorrows of four hundred years. "Practically yesterday."

"I'm sorry," Myr said quietly. "What was her name?"

"Perasolae Tanarevis."

And then there was nothing more to be said.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Nelaros arrived two days later, and before she knew it, Myr was standing on the wooden platform near the vhenadahl beside him, Soris and Valora next to them and the Revered Mother addressing the gathered elves.

Vaughn taking the women.

Soris sliding her a sword – a lifeline, a chance.

Nelaros lying in a pool of his own blood.

Shianni, her face streaked with tears and her throat worn hoarse with screaming.

Vaughn, gutted like a pig.

The guards, and she stepped forward.

Duncan defying them to take her.

Her father, old and grey and desperately afraid as he said goodbye, knowing it was probably the last time he would ever see her.

A glimpse, impossibly far away, of a small, black-haired elf with his arms full of kittens and his frost-blue eyes full of rage and grief.

-0-0-0-0-0-

"My _family_ is in there!"

Her friends pulled her away from the locked Alienage gates. "Myr, I'm sorry," Alistair said. "Really, I am, but we can't do anything about it now -"

" - we are Grey Wardens and we have a Blight to end," she finished dully, and permitted them to lead her away. She twisted out of their grasp when she saw a familiar door –

- the potions shop was dusty and empty of glassware. Myr climbed the stairs, expecting to see another empty room, but the upstairs room was still as full of bookshelves as ever. Clearly Sand had been gone a long time, though; he would never have permitted so many spiders to take up residence amongst his precious books.

Where could he have gone, leaving them behind?

Myr stared about her.

Her eyes fell on a small anomaly. She closed the small distance to the bedside drawers; on top of them rested a single sheet of parchment. She wiped the cobwebs off, revealing the small, precise script that covered it.

Her heart leapt; she knew that handwriting.

_Dear Myraene,_

_I hope you find this missive one day. I hope you survive the Grey Wardens, and the darkspawn, and all the other travails your idiot Maker insists on throwing at you. I hope you read this._

_I leave to you my shop and my books, along with enough gold to pay the shop-rent for about ten years. I have found a way home. _

_You will not approve, I know; I am not much enamoured of this plan either. But the key has always been the Fade – it must be another transitive plane, like the Astral Plane or the Plane of Shadows, because nothing else fits all the facts. If it is of that nature, then my path is clear._

_I have no connection to the Fade, but there are entities who do. If I learned only one thing while travelling with Ammon Jerro, it is that they may bargained with – even mastered, if one has sufficient will. I do not fear failure, but I know there is a chance –_

There was a huge and untidy pen blot – something had disturbed the writer.

_Jaral just bit me, the ungrateful beast. She is looking up at me with that particular expression she reserves for decisions she believes so moronic that a concussed Grobnar could plot something better. _

_It usually means I have been so focused on minute, esoteric details that I have missed something glaringly obvious. _

_Something as obvious as a glaring cat and her five half-grown kittens. _

_Dear Mystra._

_Cats have a special relationship with their home plane. You remember. They can always find their way to where they wish to be. Perhaps the Fade is as alien to Jaral as it is to me, but her kittens are half blood of this world and half blood of mine. They belong to both worlds; they can walk the Fade. I shall have to ask Jaral's forgiveness for the many times I jeered at her for yielding to the local toms... she knew exactly what she was doing all along._

_I shall ask Corico to remain behind. If ever you wish it, he can bring me to you – or you to me. _

_Farewell, my dear Myraene. _

_Ever your friend,_

_Sand _

Myr looked up from the letter and into the brilliant green eyes of a large tom cat with rusty black fur. The very tip of his tail twitched restlessly. "Well, Corico, what are you waiting for?" she asked him, ignoring Mouse's thinly-veiled hostility and the amused reactions of her friends behind her. "Go get him."


End file.
